


Year's End

by Anweyr



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, New Year's Eve, Sand Fortress 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 15:07:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17942000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anweyr/pseuds/Anweyr
Summary: Rosch spends a quiet Year's End evening with two of the most important people in his life.





	Year's End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LesteLou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LesteLou/gifts).



> The Rosch/Sonja here is technically pre-relationship, since it's set before the game. Still, I tried as much as I could to stick with their dynamic before the Red Letter Day sidequest, because I think I'm one of several people who was surprised they weren't officially a couple yet until then. 
> 
> LesteLou, I was really excited to match with you, since you wanted Rosch/Sonja and Rosch & Stocke, and I've been wanting to do something with all three of these characters for a while now. I hope you enjoy!

Rosch glanced again at the clock, then his roommate.

For at least the past hour, Stocke had been lounging on his bed with a thick book that he was maybe a third of the way through. Every so often he’d frown, lifting his eyes from the page and gazing vaguely into space for a while before shaking his head and resuming reading. 

Rosch fished in his bag, checking that the bottle of wine and the traditional jar of apple jam were still separated by the skein of yarn and wouldn’t clank together, and that the small wrapped box for Sonja hadn’t slipped to the side. He glanced at the clock again. Seven minutes left. 

Stocke turned a page. If Rosch asked, he’d probably say yes, he did plan to spend the last night of the year alone, in the barracks, reading a book that made him frown repeatedly. And whenever Rosch had invited Stocke somewhere — a gathering at the bar, dinner with friends — Stocke almost always declined. Sometimes he outright refused, but more often he turned things around like his refusal was doing Rosch a favor. “I don’t want to intrude” or “I’m sure your family would rather not have to entertain an outsider”.

Rosch made up his mind. This time, it wouldn’t be a question.

“Stocke,” he said, rising from the desk. “You’re coming with me to dinner at Sonja’s.”

Stocke didn’t even look up. “I’m sure Sonja and her family would rather not have to entertain one of her patients.”

“Sonja would rather not spend Year’s End evening alone. And since her parents can’t make it to town, that leaves us. And you two really need to meet sometime that you’re not bleeding or concussed or something. And if I leave you here, you’ll read through past the closing of the mess hall and miss dinner.” He stood up, lifting the bag carefully. “And we need a third to be able to play Cygnus Checkers properly.”

“You’re inviting me so you can play board games?” Stocke asked dryly. 

“And because you need to get out more. Look, are you really enjoying that old book on—” Rosch glanced at the spine, “ancient Granorg history that much?”

“The last century isn’t ancient,” Stocke said, but he closed the book. “All right. But I don’t have anything to bring as a host-gift.”

Rosch gestured at his bag. “I’ve got that taken care of. You can pay me back later for your half.”

Stocke snorted and set his book aside. “All right.”

***

The walk to Sonja’s was not long, but it did involve climbing a lot of stairs. She’d lived in one of the many flats built into the canyon walls for as long as she’d been in Alistel. Rosch had only seen the ground-story residence she’d shared with Rowen a handful of times, but he was very familiar with the climb to the smaller place she’d moved into after her brother’s death. He thought he could even pick out which light was hers, from down on the ground.

It grew colder as they ascended, moving away from the warmth of the city’s labyrinth of steam pipes. There was wind, too, above the second story. 

“Sonja’s place will be warm, don’t worry,” Rosch said, pausing at a landing partway. His left arm was getting stiff and achy, and the Gauntlet was starting to feel a little slow to respond. He swung both his arms like he was trying to warm himself up, to cover for trying to work the stiffness out of the left. 

“I’m not,” Stocke said, catching up. He had his shoulders hunched, probably trying to keep the short collar of his standard-issue coat up around his ears. Even only five flights up, there was a little puff of fog at his mouth as he breathed. 

When they reached Sonja’s door, several flights later, both of them were breathing a little heavily from the exertion and the cold. There was a single yellow light, making an island of illumination on the small landing outside her door. Rosch tugged on the bell-pull, sounding a chime inside. Then he stepped back, so Sonja would see both of them through the peephole.

Moments later the door opened, and Sonja appeared, smiling. Rosch felt warmth wash over him, and, moments later, the smell of fresh bread.

“Rosch! Stocke! Thank you both for coming!” Sonja lead them both inside. Rosch felt a pang of disappointment when he realized she wasn’t going to go for a hug, but she was probably trying to make sure Stocke wouldn’t feel awkward. 

Her apartment was smaller than the one she’d shared with her brother, but even at this height was still large enough to have several separate rooms, including a small entry-room with a chair and hooks for coats. Rosch hung his coat on its usual hook next to Sonja’s; Stocke hung his on the other end, one hook apart from them both.

“I’ve just taken the bread out of the oven, and the rest is almost ready.” She looked at Stocke. “We do the pretty traditional Year’s End meal — fresh bread, apple jam and potatoes, although we’ve got ordinary pork instead of wild boar’s meat. I don’t know what your family would traditionally eat at Year’s End, but if there’s something you’re missing…”

Stocke’s face went suddenly blank. “What you have is more than enough. Thank you for inviting me.” He hesitated. “The washroom?”

“On the left,” Sonja replied. Once Stocke had disappeared, she let her smile droop. “Rosch, did I say something wrong? Is his family…” She kept her voice low.

Rosch put a hand on Sonja’s shoulder to comfort her. “I don’t think he gets on well with them. Don’t worry, you couldn’t have known.”

“If you’re sure…” 

“He’ll be fine. When he comes out, he’ll be friendly enough again. Well, friendly for Stocke.” He cast about for something else to say, and then remembered the bag. “Right. I brought the jam and some wine.”

“Thank you!” Sonja said, accepting both. “Go sit and relax while I finish things up.”

He followed her down the hall, to the open area of the living room and kitchen. “Need any help with the food?”

Sonja was already in the kitchen, rummaging through a drawer. “It’s all in the oven, or done already. Go sit and relax.”

“Setting the table?” Rosch asked, a moment before he saw it was already set. Oh. “I could open the wine? Slice the bread?” 

“I’ve got the wine, and the bread needs to cool before it’s sliced.” Sonja shook her head fondly. “It’s _fine_ , Rosch.”

“Bring in the mail? Sweep the floor? Change any lightbulbs?”

She was laughing now. “Rosch!”

It was a nice laugh, and he wanted to hear more of it. “Wax the floor? Repaint the walls?”

Still laughing, Sonja turned him by the shoulders and gave him a little push towards the sofa. “Go. Sit.”

He let himself be pushed, but said, “Doesn’t seem right for me to sit on my ass while you’ve done all the work.”

Her grin had a touch of mischief. “Then you can do the dishes.”

***

When Stocke came out of the washroom, Rosch was sitting on the sofa with the ball of red yarn and the partially-finished scarf in his lap. Rosch figured there was no point in hiding it — he’d been trying to, only working on the project when Stocke was out of the room, and where had that gotten him? Year’s End Eve and the blasted thing still a quarter of the way to go.

“I didn’t know you could knit,” Stocke said, taking a seat in the rocking chair.

“This is crochet. It uses a hook.” Rosch finished another stitch and then held yarn and hook out towards Stocke. The finished end of the scarf hung all the way to the floor. “With knitting, you hold the needles in both hands.”

“I suppose that would be hard to manage with the Gauntlet,” Stocke said, refreshingly direct as usual. Too many people seemed afraid to say the word “Gauntlet”, like Rosch might have forgotten he had a mechanical left arm, and them saying it aloud would remind him.

Rosch shrugged. “It is, which is why they made me learn it. Occupational therapy.”

“Meese wanted him to try paper-folding and embroidery,” Sonja called from kitchen. “I lobbied for something manlier, for the sake of his dignity.”

“Dignity? You keep threatening to make a knitting machine attachment!”

“That’s because you promised to knit me a sweater.”

“That was when I was first starting! I didn’t know-” Rosch trailed off.

“Know what?”

Rosch tried very hard not to go red. “How hard it would be,” he said, gruffly, ignoring the uneasy feeling in his gut. He reminded himself that he didn’t put any stock in the supposed sweater curse the old woman at the yarn shop had told him about. Especially since she’d been so gleeful, listing all of the friends, and friends of friends, and cousins of neighbors of sisters of friends who had made sweaters for their significant others, only for the relationship to end. It was just a superstition. “It probably won’t turn out well, and I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“It’s fine, Rosch. I’m just teasing.” Sonja looked a little rueful. “Well, that’s everything ready. Let’s eat.” 

***

At the start of the meal, Sonja lead them in Grace. This meant she said all of the “for the toil of man” and “for the fruits of the field” lines, and Rosch uttered all the “we give thanks”-es on automatic and glanced at Stocke out of the corner of his eye. Stocke had joined in at the start, but stopped mid-response, and mumbled inaudibly for the rest.

“Everything okay?” Rosch asked him quietly, when the prayer ended and Sonja got up to bring the wine and bread to the table.

Stocke’s ears were faintly pink. “I grew up with a different version. ‘Thanks be given.’”

Rosch thought about what it would be like to suddenly have to change the response. “I guess it’s a bit like suddenly having to march starting with the left foot instead of the right.”

Sonja returned and they all started to eat, Stocke with a rigid posture and impeccable manners that Rosch hadn’t seen from him in a very long while. He praised the food — the meat was tender, the bread delicious, and so on. Sonja took the praise graciously in her turn, crediting a grandfather’s recipe, her mother’s technique, the butcher’s recommendation. It was very, very, polite and formal and civilized, and it made Rosch itchy and restless.

“What, isn’t the wine any good?” he asked, after Stocke had made polite little remarks over everything else on the table. 

Stocke gave him a look. “I’m drinking it.”

“Well, I’m sorry if it’s not up to your standards. I don’t have a fancy refined palette.”

Stocke gave him a second, more pointed look. “I’m drinking it.”

“Where did you get the jam, Rosch?” Sonja asked, before Rosch had time to say anything else to Stocke. “It was delicious.”

“Er, a stand in the midwinter market,” Rosch said, blinking at the sudden change of topic. “The old woman running it said I reminded her of her grandson and she gave me a discount.” He took a bite of bread.

“That was kind of her,” Sonja offered.

“The stand in the northwest corner of the market? With a green checkered cloth?” Stocke asked.

His mouth full of bread and jam, Rosch could only nod in reply.

“And she called out to you as you walked by?” Stocke continued, and Rosch nodded again. “You paid too much.” 

“I didn’t even tell you what I paid!” Rosch protested once his mouth was clear. 

“Doesn’t matter. That was Grandmother Hazel.” Stocke broke a piece of bread in half. “She has no grandchildren. When she was younger, it was nieces and nephews.” 

“Does Specint have you investigating market-sellers for scams?” Rosch grumbled, to cover his embarrassment. 

“No. I was running an errand for Sgt. Brock and overheard her. A little later, I heard her quote someone else a different price. Then I asked around. It was easy enough to put the pieces together.”

Well, it stung a little less to know that Stocke had found out more or less by accident. “I guess Heiss having you investigate market-sellers would be a little ridiculous.”

“He usually only assigns that sort of duty to agents he’s annoyed at.”

Rosch had been vaguely aware of Sonja’s silence and the thin worry-line between her eyebrows as he and Stocke talked. Suddenly, she laughed. “That’s a relief.”

Rosch turned to her. “Why’s that?” 

“I thought you two were a lot more serious about the wine than you were, that’s all.” She shrugged. “Stocke, you were running an errand for Brock? Was that while he was laid up with his broken leg?”

Stocke nodded. “He needed medicine for his cat.”

“Sgt. Brock has a cat?” Rosch could imagine the burly giant of a man with a big dog, maybe, but a cat?

“Yes, a small black cat with white toes,” Sonja put in. “Named Nina. I saw her when I stopped by to check on him. Very sweet. I’m sorry to hear that she was sick.”

“She’s fine now,” Stocke said in what was, for him, a reassuring tone.

“That’s good to hear.” Sonja looked thoughtful. “I wonder if we should get cats for the infirmary. When Nina was sitting on Brock was the only time I’ve seen him stay in put when he was supposed to. He’s as bad as some others I might name.”

Stocke frowned. “Wouldn’t that be a sanitation hazard?”

“I think she was joking,” Rosch hazarded. 

“Not about the last part,” Sonja said, with a look at each of them.

***

Conversation flowing freely, even with the normally taciturn Stocke present, the three of them lingered over the meal long after appetites were sated and the bottle of wine emptied. Rosch felt contentedly full — of good food, and of warmth over laughing with his two best friends.

After they finally surrendered to the reality of empty plates and full stomachs, Stocke helped clear the table while Sonja put the rest of the food away. Rosch put up a token protest over being drafted to do the dishes, but only because both the dish-washing and the protest were traditional. He retrieved the glove for his Gauntlet from its usual place under the sink, and set to work. 

“I’ll help dry,” Stocke offered.

“You’re a _guest_ ,” Sonja and Rosch said, within seconds of each other. He looked over his shoulder at her and they shared a grin, before returning to their respective tasks. 

“It’s so funny to be storing the leftover potatoes and jam in the icebox,” Sonja mused, rearranging items in the small thaumatech appliance.

“Why’s that?” Stocke asked.

Rosch turned in surprise. “Didn’t your family do Year’s End dinner?” Oh, damn, he shouldn’t have put it that way. “I mean, don’t you eat potatoes and jam where you’re from?” No, that was even worse, blast it. “As traditional foods for Year’s End.”

And just as he’d feared, Stocke’s expression closed like a door. “In the outer provinces, Year’s End celebrations are mostly the old midwinter feast traditions, moved to a different day. Iceboxes and other household thaumatech aren’t in common use, and wealthy families still usually hire a mage to maintain cold spells in the pantry.”

Well, Stocke sounding like he was reciting from a book was better than Stocke shutting down all together, or leaving the room, Rosch figured. “Oh. I guess that makes sense.” It didn’t, but it was something safe to say without putting his foot in it again.

Sonja had finished with the icebox, and turned to face them both, leaning against the counter. “Our ancestors who followed Noah out of Granorg only had the food they could store for winter without thaumatech — things like potatoes, jams and other canned foods, flour — or hunt, like boar. No fresh milk or eggs, either.”  


“That explains why there were no midwinter spice-cakes at the market,” Stocke said. “I’d wondered if it was cultural drift or an intentional rejection of the old traditions.”

“I think it’s both,” Sonja said. “I remember them from when I was a child, before we moved into the city. I liked the ones with icing best.”

Rosch rinsed a plate. “I’ve never had them, but I grew up here. Maybe I should see about getting some for my family next week.” His sister’s family would probably like them. Grandma would probably complain about breaking from tradition, but she was always happiest to have something to complain about. At least this way she wouldn’t be harping about how he ought to get married.

“That’s a good idea. But don’t let your sister’s children have too many, or they’ll be running wild more than usual,” Sonja warned. 

“Is this the usual gathering at your grandmother’s? I’m not going,” Stocke said, flatly. 

“I didn’t even ask you yet,” Rosch protested.

“Considering the stories you’ve told about your grandmother, it seemed wise to put in an advance refusal.” 

Sonja laughed while Rosch tried to defend his grandmother’s reputation without actually lying. He wasn’t very successful. Eventually Sonja rescued him by asking Stocke to take the garbage out.

And then it was just the two of them, Rosch and Sonja, Rosch up to his elbows in suds and Sonja pacing the kitchen. 

A moment later, Rosch found himself being aggressively hugged by Sonja, her arms around his waist and her head against his back. 

“Everything okay?” he asked, reaching for a towel.

“Just a little sad. I’ll be fine in a moment.” Sonja’s voice was muffled.

Hands dry, Rosch turned to return the embrace. Sonja let him, and buried her face against his shoulder.

“I miss Rowan too,” Rosch said, quietly, and patted her gently on the back in what he hoped was a reassuring way. She was so big a presence in any room it was always a shock to hold her in a moment like this, and be reminded of how tiny she was.

They stood like that for a moment longer. Then Sonja lifted her head and smiled up at him, eyes a little bright but face dry. “Thank you. I feel better now.”

“It’s no problem,” Rosch replied, smiling back. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t have kept a straight face when she turned that brilliant smile on him. 

“Thank you for bringing Stocke. It’s better to share Year’s End with more people.”

“Thanks for letting me. Otherwise he’d have spent the

The sudden creak of a floorboard reminded Rosch that Stocke was in the apartment, and he hastily let go of Sonja and turned back to the dishes as his friend returned.

“Rosch said something about Cygnus checkers earlier?” Stocke said. “I saw the set on the bookcase.” 

“Yes! It’s traditional. Let’s set up on the kitchen table.” 

Rosch heard the scraping of chairs being pulled away from the table, and the rattle of the box being set down.

“When I was little, I thought the colors stood for the three countries,” Sonja mused. “Blue was Alistel, because we use thaumatech. Red was Granorg, because of the bloody tyrants.” She laughed a little. “And Cygnus was yellow because of the sand.”

“Yellow because of the sand?” Rosch repeated, amused.

“Yes! I did say I was ten. I thought I was very clever for having figured it all out.” 

“That’s leaving out Celestia,” Stocke said.

“And Forgia, I know. I was ten.” She sighed, audible even where Rosch was. “I wonder a little bit about that. We didn’t invade Celestia until later, but…” 

“General Hugo started pushing the idea that Celestia’s lands were originally part of Alistel for a while before the actual invasion,” Stocke said. “Historical record notwithstanding.”

“Well, that was just his opinion then, right? He doesn’t say that kind of thing now,” Rosch said, drying his hands and coming to sit at the table. “Now that he speaks for the Prophet and not just himself and the army.”

Stocke and Sonja exchanged unreadable looks. Then Sonja said, “Stocke, you’re the guest. You choose your color first.”

Stocke was given the first move, too. He moved a single red marker in silence, and looked to his right at Rosch.

After a few rounds, things were finally interesting enough for Sonja to have to consider her move, frowning thoughtfully over her blue pegs. Rosch got up to get the scarf he’d been working on. 

“The game not challenging enough for you?” she teased when he came back. “I’m joking, I’m joking.”

“Wanted to get it finished soon,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat. “Whose turn is it?”

Stocke reached out and hopped one of his pegs over three others in turn. “Now it’s yours.”

As Rosch deliberated, taking in the changed board, Sonja said, “So, Stocke, you’ve been in Specint for a month now, was it? How are you finding it?” 

“It’s all right. The culture is different from the main army.”

Rosch snorted. “You mean you don’t have uniform regs and Heiss isn’t doing room inspections.” The image of the old balding bat bouncing a coin on a bed to check that it was made properly was a funny one.

Stocke shrugged. “Right now I’m the one doing the room inspections. Training in lock-picking and searching. The other agents are being tested on if they can tell I was there.”

“They’re having you break into people’s private rooms?” Sonja said in shock. She tempered the rest of her response. “I suppose that makes sense, it’s safer to practice on allies than enemies. It just seems… well. Spying on their own people was one of the Thirteen Sins of the Tyrants.”

Rosch had a more immediate concern. “Are we going to be, uh, inspected by Specint?”

Stocke shook his head. “Heiss said we’re exempt. Army rules. And the other agents have Granorg-style locks on their doors.” 

“So you’re not being trained to pick our locks. That’s better.” Sonja sighed in relief.

Stocke said nothing. 

Rosch finally took his turn, and play passed to Sonja.

She peered intently at the board for the time it took Rosch to finish another row of the scarf. Then she cried, “ahah!” and jumped one of her pieces over five of the others. 

*** 

They played another game after Sonja won the first. Stocke won that one. Sonja made tea, Stocke perused her bookshelf, and then the two of them discussed their respective reading preferences. Rosch didn’t have much to contribute, since he only read the occasional adventure serial, so he continued crocheting. It was nice to get absorbed in the work, letting Sonja and Stocke’s conversation about history and medical texts wash over him.

Time passed. The conversation drifted to army gossip, something Rosch could add to. Sonja made more tea and threatened to loan books to Stocke. Rosch finished the scarf.

The conversation had lulled, and Rosch had stifled a few yawns, when Sonja’s clock struck ten.

Stocke looked faintly surprised. “I hadn’t realized how late it had gotten.”

Rosch looked at Sonja, and then Stocke. There was no curfew, and it wasn’t too long a walk back to the barracks, but… “We’d probably better head back soon.”

“Oh, I suppose so.” Sonja sighed, smiled regretfully, and rose to her feet. “Just let me get the whiskey.”

“We’re not supposed to keep spirits in military housing,” Stocke said, startled.

“It’s just a nip before you go to keep you warm on the road,” Sonja reassured him. “Like a nightcap.”

“It’s traditional,” Rosch told his friend. 

“Like Cygnus checkers?” Stocke asked with a crooked smile.

“And the apple jam,” Rosch replied. “Also, there’s a toast. So don’t do anything rude like refuse it.”

“Stocke, ignore him, you don’t have to have any if you don’t want to,” Sonja said. She’d returned with three small glasses and a familiar small glass bottle. 

“It’s fine,” Stocke assured Sonja, and accepted one of the glasses when she offered them around. “Do we stand or sit for the toast?”

“Stand,” Rosch told him, climbing to his feet. He looked at the amber liquid in his own glass, and tried to assemble words.

“To this ending year, for all the good things it brought us,” Sonja proposed, holding up her glass. “And for the times spent with family and friends.”

“To this ending year, for seeing Alistel and her people safely through,” Rosch said, feeling his voice catch briefly. 

“To this ending year, for the books we read.” Stocke paused. “Even if they’re dime novels.”

“Hey,” Rosch protested, as Sonja chuckled.

“If you’d warned me about the toast, I could’ve come up with something more suitable,” Stocke told him. “You didn’t.”

“To this ending year,” Sonja said, getting them back on track. “And forward to the next one.” She sipped her whiskey.

Rosch and, a moment later, Stocke, followed suit. Rosch took his all in one go, feeling its warmth in the back of his throat as it went down. 

They lingered a bit, slowly making their way to the entryway for boots and coats, but the evening was at its end, and it was late enough that Rosch wasn’t as reluctant about leaving Sonja as he would’ve been.

“You don’t need to come out with us,” Stocke said, as Sonja slipped on her shoes to follow.

She shared a smile with Rosch. “This part is traditional, too.”

The three stepped outside, onto the small landing outside Sonja’s door. Sonja walked across to rest a hand on the railing. Rosch took a spot to her right, so he could block the wind. A moment later, Stocke came up to stand on Rosch’s right.

It was full dark, but below them the lights of the city glowed, tiny blooms of green and yellow against the black. The occasional red lights of bars were scattered among them, mostly clustered in the second district. 

Each of those lights was a business or a home. A dream, a daily life, a family. These lights were the people of Alistel, burning cheerfully against the dark and cold, undaunted by the winter night because of the progress of human knowledge, minds free from the tyrant’s shackles. Rosch blinked to clear suddenly-misty eyes. 

Sonja leaned against his left arm. He lifted it and put it around her carefully. She sighed and pulled closer, and not even seeming to notice the extra weight of his Gauntlet. She never did. Without her, without his left arm, he wouldn’t be able to protect the lights of the city.

And at his right hand, Stocke, who always held himself a little apart, was nevertheless here, standing quietly by Rosch’s side. 

Rosch swallowed against the lump in his throat. Then Sonja stirred, and Stocke sighed, and the moment was over.

“Happy Year’s End! Pleasant dreams, both of you,” Sonja said.

“Pleasant dreams,” Stocke echoed. “Thank you again for your hospitality.”

“Pleasant dreams. Er.” Rosch had been trying to find a time to give Sonja her present in a way that wouldn’t be awkward for either her or Stocke, but it seemed he’d missed the obvious chances. He reached into his bag and pulled out the wrapped box. “Happy Year’s End, Sonja.” 

She took the package and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Rosch. I’m afraid I don’t have yours ready yet — next week.”

“You don’t need to get me anything,” he reassured her. “You had us over for dinner--”

“I will if I want to,” she said, folding her arms. Her stern look only lasted for a few seconds before it broke into a smile.

There was another round of “Pleasant dreams,” and then it really was time to go. Stocke lead the way to the first flight of stairs. Rosch trailed behind, pausing before he descended. He looked back and waved at Sonja, who waved back. Then he followed Stocke.

It wasn’t even a flight before Stocke was obviously hunching his shoulders to keep his ears warm, probably because of all the time they’d spent looking out at the city.

“Wait,” Rosch called, when they reached the next landing.

Stocke obediently stopped, turning to look at his friend. 

Rosch brusquely looped the red scarf around Stocke’s neck before the other man could protest. “There. I didn’t get it done in time to wrap it, but it’s more convenient this way.”

Stocke just blinked in astonishment. “Thank you,” he said after an awkward pause. He reached up and touched the wool scarf. “It’s softer than I expected.”

Rosch scuffed the ground with a boot. “You’re welcome. I’m glad.” 

“I’ve got your gift back in the room.” Stocke tilted his head towards the stairs, to indicate they should keep moving. “It won’t be as useful as this.”

“Thanks.” Rosch took the lead, this time. He descended in silence, feeling warm and content despite the wind’s cold slowly numbing his face.

Midway down the next flight, Stocke’s voice reached his ears. “Doesn’t tradition say you’re not supposed to open Year’s End gifts until the next year begins?”

“Since when have you ever cared about following tradition?” Rosch returned, flustered.

Stocke just chuckled and kept walking, passing him on the steps. Rosch hurried to catch up. They walked side by side through the quiet night, back to the warmth of the barracks and the room they shared there.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to LadyNighteyes for the beta! 
> 
> The thaumatech refrigeration, the idea that Rosch has a "civilian model" Gauntlet for non-combat situations (so he's not constantly hauling that giant lobster claw around) and does yarn crafts, and the existance of dime novels in Alistel are all worldbuilding ideas gleaned from the fandom at large, both on AO3 and on Tumblr.


End file.
